


easy 'cause you're bare-chested

by surexit



Series: easy 'cause you're bare-chested [1]
Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Alternate Universe, First Meetings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-15
Updated: 2012-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-31 06:20:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/340895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surexit/pseuds/surexit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray's a hipster college kid. Brad's a Marine. </p><p>“You know,” the kid says, drawling. “This kind of homophobic rhetoric has no place in modern America, homes. Although I am a dicksucking liberal, both of those things are literally true.” He’s suddenly crowded up close behind Brad as the line reshuffles, and Brad can hear an obnoxious smirk in his voice as he says, “Want me to demonstrate, Marine?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	easy 'cause you're bare-chested

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Easy 'cause you're bare-chested](https://archiveofourown.org/works/667663) by [SleepSpindles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepSpindles/pseuds/SleepSpindles)



> Many thanks to psuedo_catalyst, sying and unfinishedidea. ♥
> 
> Mild warning for casual derogatory language.

Brad ignores college students as a rule. They're fucking annoying, and they're everywhere. The one that's just sidled up to the supermarket checkout line behind Brad is not originally an exception. But then Poke shouts Brad's name, to ask him a question about beer, and Brad has to turn to answer, and he gets caught in the frankly interested gaze of a pair of dark, lazy eyes, which flick from his USMC hoodie to his face. The kid is wearing a chunky sweater and skinny (really, really skinny) jeans, and there's a quirk to his mouth which Brad finds reluctantly intriguing.

"Hey, soldier," the kid says in a mocking purr. "Me love you long time."

Brad snorts slightly before he can stop himself. “Don’t flatter yourself, kid,” he says, and calls to Poke, “The twelvepack, Espera, don’t be a pussy.”

He turns back to face the front of the line, but he’s more aware of the dark-eyed kid at his back than he was before. The line’s long – fucking suit-monkeys and their after-work grocery runs – and as it shuffles forwards he can feel the kid moving up closer and closer, the skin on Brad’s back starting to prickle.

The kid speaks again, laughter in his low-pitched Midwestern voice. “You sure, Marine? You look a bit tense.”

“You not worried about getting beaten up?” Brad asks out of the corner of his mouth. He’s honestly curious.

“Here? I’m counting on you having more than three brain cells.” There’s a speculative pause, and then the kid says, “On reflection, possibly dangerous. You been able to vent your steroid-fuelled aggression on any brown people recently?” 

Brad’s startled into another almost-laugh, the corner of his mouth crooking slightly. “You sound like a dicksucking liberal, kid.”

“You know,” the kid says, drawling. “This kind of homophobic rhetoric has no place in modern America, homes. Although I am a dicksucking liberal, both of those things are literally true.” He’s suddenly crowded up close behind Brad as the line reshuffles, and Brad can hear an obnoxious smirk in his voice as he says, “Want me to demonstrate, Marine?”

The heat of his body makes the hairs on the nape of Brad’s neck stand up, and he says casually, “Sure.” He enjoys the shocked hitch in the kid’s breathing. “Get your cell, here’s my number.” He hears the kid scrabbling for his cell as he reels off the number, and then Poke is pushing in between him and the kid, muttering, “Sorry, ‘scuse me,” to the kid and thrusting a jar in front of Brad with a, “Your fucking sundried tomatoes, Colbert, you grade-A homosexual.”

***

Brad’s phone rings that evening with an unfamiliar number, and Brad raises his eyebrows. He was pretty sure that the kid wouldn’t actually have the guts to call. “Yes?” he answers, stretching his legs down the couch and turning the TV volume down. 

“Are you a hot blond Marine, or do I have a fake number?” the voice on the other end asks, and Brad surprises himself by grinning.

“Are you a bucktoothed hipster hick, or am I talking to someone I’ve never met?” he says.

“I think we’re both talking to who we think we’re talking to,” the kid says. 

“Uh-huh,” Brad says, still grinning. “What’s your name?”

“Really? I was quite enjoying this conversation without names. There’s something nice about ‘hipster hick’, I might start using it.”

“I’m not sucking your dick without a name.”

“Oh.” There’s a suddenly uneven edge to the kid’s breathing. “Are you really not planning to beat me up?” he asks, voice a little thin. “Because if you are, I’ve got plenty of schoolwork to do instead.”

“Pinky swear,” Brad says.

“If it’s good enough for middle school, it’s good enough for me. Hi. I’m Josh Ray Person.”

“Josh Ray? There’s a trailer park name if I ever heard one.”

“You know, Mr Marine,” Josh Ray coos, “you are _spot on_. Call me Ray, though.”

“I’m at 106 Lakeview, Josh Ray, head on over.” Brad hangs up, and wiggles his toes with satisfaction.

The phone rings again five seconds later.

Brad frowns at it, and then picks it up with another, “Yes?”

“Like, don’t get me wrong,” Person’s voice says on the other end. “I really, _really_ appreciate the whole masterful thing you’ve got going on, in theory. Like, it really helps that you look like you could back it up, and basically I’m on board with the whole I’m-the-boss thing. But I didn’t get your name.”

“You don’t think it ruins the mystique?” Brad asks. He’s astonished to find himself smiling again.

“Trust me, you have plenty of mystique. But I’m completely incapable of following orders, so you’re going to want to give me your name and ask nicely.”

“I am?” Brad asks.

“You are,” the kid says, and there’s not a hint of uncertainty in his voice. Until he hesitates and says, “Oh shit, is this a military thing? I’m not gonna get you fired, homes. Or whatever they do to Marines – do they push you overboard? Oh my God, do they make you walk the plank?” He’s gone from sympathetically concerned to gleefully mocking in the space of two sentences.

“Focus, Person. I’m Brad Colbert. Please will you come over and have sex with me?”

“Oh. Okay. Yeah,” Person says, and hangs up abruptly. Brad’s not sure whether to be mildly offended or not, but there are exciting explosions on the TV screen so he ends up going with ‘not’.

***

It takes Person an hour to get to Brad’s, which is fine because the explosions on the screen turned out to be part of a trashy and excellently mindless B-movie, and so Brad’s not too keyed-up when the doorbell goes. He hooks up often enough, but it’s normally the kind of hook-up where both parties are pretty buzzed, and where they stagger home from a bar, not completely sober early-evening assignations arranged over the phone. The slight feeling of sleaziness has settled anticipatorily under his skin.

“I don’t do booty calls,” is the first thing Ray Person says when Brad opens the door. His wide dark eyes are just as noticeable as they were when Brad first saw him. “Particularly not with fucking Marines, homes. I want you to know that this is a weird fucking experience.”

Brad’s lips twitch. “Fucking hasn’t happened yet,” he points out.

Ray frowns up at him. “Don’t be lowbrow, Mr Marine.”

“Want a drink?” Brad asks, stepping aside so that Ray can come into the house.

“Yeah, from your _cock_ ,” Ray says, leaning in close. There’s a hungry undercurrent in his voice which catches Brad’s attention first, a momentary shiver of lust, before he really hears the words.

When he has heard them, however, he can’t let them pass. “Classy, Person,” he says. “You say that to all the boys?”

“Yeah, pretty much,” Ray says, eyes gleaming amusedly up at Brad. “It’s a surprisingly successful line.”

“I honestly and truly shudder to think,” Brad says, and steps forwards, crowding Ray back into the wall.

“ _Fuck_ , you’re tall,” Ray murmurs, falling back easily and running his hands up Brad’s chest. 

“Either that, or you’re really short,” Brad says, and then takes Ray’s hands loosely by the wrists. He pins them up against the wall above Ray’s head, high enough that Ray is stretching just a little to stay comfortable, his back arching and colour starting to rise onto his cheekbones.

“You’re –“ His voice rasps, and he pauses to swallow. Brad watches the bob of his throat with intent eyes. “You’re doing the masterful thing again.”

“Yes,” Brad agrees easily. “I assume you’ll tell me if that’s a problem.” He tugs Ray’s wrists an inch or two higher, and leans down to breathe, “Is it a problem?” into one ear, nudging the words in with a flicker of his tongue.

“No-o,” Ray says, voice cracking in the middle of the word. “No, no, no problem, go right ahead, soldier.”

“Marine,” Brad says, and bites his earlobe. Gently, just the tiniest catch of teeth, but it makes Ray jerk like he’s been stung.

“Shit, yeah, Marine,” he says, on an inhale that sounds more like a gasp. “Sorry, soldier.”

Brad grins a little, because so far Josh Ray Person’s main identifiable personality trait has been a complete inability to lie down and take it, and he kind of likes it. He noses a little at the hinge of Ray’s jaw, enjoying the soft skin and listening to Ray’s breathing get faster as he drifts from jaw to cheekbone to forehead to ear. Mostly he kisses, but occasionally he bites, and each nip makes the tiniest whine find its way into Ray’s exhales.

Ray holds out for surprisingly longer than Brad had expected, hands clenched above Brad’s and eyes closed, before he finally says, “So what, you don’t kiss?” It’s an admirable attempt at bravado, undermined by the plaintive note in his rough voice and the needy jut of his hips.

“What are you going to do about if I say I don’t?” Brad asks, languidly challenging, and he’s entirely unprepared for the response.

Ray twists his hands suddenly towards the weak part of Brad’s grip, and they’re free before Brad realises it. And then Ray surges forwards and upwards, grabbing Brad’s head and pulling it down until he can bring their mouths together, swallowing Brad’s startled grunt. It’s fierce and greedy and completely unhesitant, and Ray introduces tongue almost immediately, wet and messy, while his fingers clench tight against Brad’s cheekbones.

Brad pulls away after a minute or two, panting through lips slick with spit, and says, “So apparently I kiss.”

“Apparently so,” Ray says, eyelids fluttering heavily. His fingers start to relax against Brad’s face, and Brad watches intently as his bruised lips curve into a smile. “What else do you do?”

“I don’t know, let’s -” Brad starts to back towards the stairs, looping a hand around Ray’s wrist to pull him along, “- let’s find out.” 

“Okay,” Ray says agreeably, following. “Is it kinky shit? Do you have a sex dungeon?”

Brad stops on the bottom step, staring down at Ray with his eyebrows raised. “Is that what you were hoping for?”

Ray tips his head right back to look up at Brad, and licks his lips with a slow, deliberate flutter of his tongue. “I could maybe go for it. Do you have a leather catsuit?”

Brad blinks, and then grins. “No sex dungeon, and no leather catsuit, I’m sorry.”

Ray pouts, and that is _fascinating_ \- Brad can’t be blamed for where his focus is. “I’ll forgive you, Marine, come on.” He climbs a few steps until his face is level with Brad’s and leans in, looping his arms over Brad’s shoulders and kissing him slow and lazy and thorough. 

That lasts a while, and the little moans Ray makes in the back of his throat are driving Brad _crazy_ , each one a tiny shock of lust to his brain. It doesn’t take very long before he pulls back, hands tight on Ray’s hips, and says roughly, “Okay, bedroom. Up the stairs, on your right.”

"Sure, sure," Ray says, voice throaty, and scrambles to follow the directions. Brad climbs the stairs after him, admiring the shape of a very nice ass very carefully displayed in the very skinny jeans.

"You mean these jeans to be this tight?" he asks, as Ray hesitates just outside the door to his bedroom. He crowds in behind him, getting a good handful of his ass and squeezing, and it makes Ray jump and yelp and then grin back over his shoulder, eyes wide.

"Yeah, I did, you got a problem with it?" And then he fucking shimmies, which leaves Brad torn between laughter and dry-mouthed arousal at the loose sway of Ray's hips.

"No," he manages, rubbing his palm over the tight curve. "They're going to be a bitch to get off, though."

"Maybe they aren't coming off." Ray's still watching him over his shoulder, mouth half-hidden and cheeks flushed. "Maybe I can fuck you with my clothes on."

"That turn you on?" Brad asks, but he knows the answer from the way Ray's mouth has fallen a little open. He leans in, rests his chin in the crook of Ray's neck and says, "Maybe I can ride you. And maybe you won’t be able to move properly because those jeans are too fucking tight, maybe your legs will be trapped and you’ll just have to _take it_ , my ass on your dick.”

Ray whines quietly in the back of his throat, tight and needy, and says, "Yeah, yeah. That sounds good." His voice wavers.

"Sounds good to me too," Brad says, nudging his hard cock against the small of Ray's back and reaching a hand around to the bulge of Ray's dick, spreading his fingers out over it and kneading gently. Ray melts into him, head tipping back against Brad's chest and breathing in gulping gasps.

"I'm glad we agree," he manages, and the fact that he can still thread an edge of mockery into his tone when he's this turned on is pretty impressive, Brad thinks.

"Open the door," he says, craning down to breathe the words into Ray's ear, and watches, finger stroking up and down the fly of Ray's jeans, as Ray fucks up opening the door in every possible way - tries to pull it towards him, turns the handle the wrong way, fumbles his grip on the handle because his palms are too sweaty, doesn't push hard enough. "Fuck, Person," he says finally, thumbing open the button at the top of Ray's fly. "Are you high?"

"No, asshole, fuck yo-" He breaks off with a yelp as Brad slides his zip down, and insinuates his fingertips into Ray's jeans, stroking along the line of his dick over his boxers.

"You sure? You seem a bit out of it," Brad says, face as straight as he can keep it. 

Ray's fingers are around Brad's wrist, but he's not trying to stop the stroking, only gripping hard like he needs something to hold onto. He's curling forwards, sagging a little in the circle of Brad's arms.

"Come on," Brad says, nipping at the nape of his neck. "College students are supposed to be smart enough to open doors."

"Holy fuck, you're actually going to kill me," Ray says, but he reaches towards the door handle again and finally gets the door open.

They stagger in, Ray twisting around to get at Brad's mouth, and Brad's hand still inside Ray's jeans. Brad steers them, as best he can, but Ray still ends up bashing his shins hard against the bed, pulling away from Brad to say, "Fucking ow, homes," before leaning back up. One hand is on Brad's neck, thumb petting at the pulse under his ear, and the other is engaged in pulling frantically at his Converse - the flexibility it's taking for Ray to get his foot up high enough to reach the laces of his shoes without breaking off the kiss keeps drawing Brad's attention, as does the way that the manoeuvre pulls at his open jeans, flashing his hipbones at Brad every so often.

The shoes are finally off, and Ray shakes Brad's hands off impatiently to climb onto the bed, kneeling and winding his arms around Brad's neck again. "Hey," he says, mouth hovering just above Brad's. Brad shivers as the hot breath brushes over his lips. "Hey," Ray says again. "Will you seriously let me fuck you?"

"If you know what you're doing," Brad says, squeezing his hands down the back of Ray's jeans to grab his ass. 

Ray pushes back into the touch and says, "Yeah. Yeah I do," on a groan, hands moving into Brad’s hair.

"Sure, then," Brad says, and tugs at Ray's loose sweater and the shirt underneath it until Ray gets the hint and raises his arms. Brad pulls the tops off and discards them on the bedroom floor, and then surveys what he's uncovered - pale skin and lean muscles - before tweaking Ray's nipples roughly. Ray jerks and moans, head falling back. "Keeping the jeans on?" Brad asks with a smirk.

Ray looks at him hazily and says, "Fuck no, homes, this is one of the greatest things that has ever happened to me. I'm definitely going to be naked for it."

"Go on," Brad says, stepping back and sliding his hand down his own track pants to squeeze his dick. Ray's eyes gleam at the sight, and he stands up from the bed and starts to work his jeans down, a procedure which Brad is pretty sure shouldn't require quite so much ass-shaking. But then what does he know, he doesn't wear skinny jeans. And it's not like he's complaining, his dick jumping a little under his cupped hand as Ray bends over to pull the jeans away from his feet.

"I want to blow you first," Ray says, as he straightens up and kicks his jeans and boxers away. He moves up close to Brad, a long stripe of heat against his front, and slips his fingers up under Brad's shirt, stroking the soft skin of his belly. 

"I'm okay with that," Brad says, and pulls his shirt over his head. When he's free of the material, and can see again, it's to find Ray staring at his chest hungrily. "You can touch, Person," he says. 

Ray darts a glance up at him from under his eyelashes, and then grins, suddenly and sharply, a dimple dancing in his cheek. "Drop your pants and sit on the bed and I will."

Brad doesn't rush to obey but he's maybe a little faster than he might normally be. When he glances at Ray, the way Ray's mouth is quirked at the corner and the way the dimple is still present lets him know that his speed was noted. Brad raises his eyebrows challengingly and spreads his legs.

"Impatient, Marine?" Ray asks, dropping to his knees and smoothing his hands up Brad's thighs with no fanfare.

"Waiting for you to prove you've got the goods," Brad says, leaning back on his hands, faux-casual.

"Sure," Ray says, grinning up at him. “Condoms?” 

“In the drawer,” Brad says, and watches the play of muscles in Ray’s arms as he stretches to open the drawer and root around for a condom, retrieving one and ripping it open with a flash of white teeth. He holds it in one hand, glances up at Brad from under his lashes and flicks his tongue over the head of Brad's cock, a sharp shock of heat. Brad twitches, he can't help it, and Ray's grin transmutes into more of a smirk as he rolls the condom down, rounds his mouth, and follows after it onto Brad's dick, hand gripping the base.

He's fucking good, which Brad kind of expected - mouthy guys like Person often are - and he's loud, louder than Brad, moaning around his mouthful like it's something delicious. Which is pretty fucking hot, and Brad's arms tremble under his weight.

Brad regrets the necessity of the condom for a moment or two, because holy shit he would like to feel this without one. Ray’s very very good at what he’s doing, tongue flicking against the latex, and Brad’s fingers clench and unclench against the bedspread, rucking it up around his hands. He’s struggling to get enough air in, breathing in huge gulps, and Ray is sucking hard now, tongue pressed flat against the underside of Brad’s dick. Brad can’t look away from his hollowed cheeks.

His orgasm takes him by surprise – one moment he’s staring at the feathery spread of Ray’s eyelashes over his cheeks, and the next it’s twisting out from inside him, a corkscrew of sharp pleasure – and he bites his lip and shudders through it, locking his elbows in a desperate attempt to not collapse backwards and maybe slide bonelessly off the bed. He manages to stay mostly upright, and stares blindly at the wall above Ray’s head. His shoulders are heaving with his panting breaths as he pulls himself together. 

He lets himself flop back after a moment or two, spread-eagle on the bed, and feels the slight tug as Ray pulls the condom off his softening cock. "Thanks," he says, finding his voice unexpectedly hoarse.

"No, no, the pleasure was mine," Ray says, leaning over him and putting one hand on the bed by his head. The other hand is holding the knotted condom away from both of them as Ray leans down for a messy kiss - a slightly latex-tinged kiss at first, but the flavour disappears as the kiss stretches on, wet and deep.

"So you want to," Brad says, running a hand down Ray's chest and circling his cock loosely with his fingers.

"Yeah, man, I really fucking do," Ray says. "Holy shit, you're hot." He licks one of Brad's nipples, and Brad twitches weakly, aftershocks still rolling through his body.

"I'm just gonna lie back and think of England, alright?" Brad says, and he smiles up at Ray who grins back, all teeth and eyes.

"Definitely, feel free. Lube in the same place as condoms?"

"Yeah, knock yourself out," Brad says, arching his back and stretching his arms a little. He feels fucking _fantastic_.

Ray disappears from his eye line for a minute or two, and Brad can hear a wet splat as the condom hits the trashcan, and then the rustle of Ray rooting through the drawer. "Fuck, has it been a while for you?" he asks. "This lube is buried under a lot of crap, homes."

"None of your business," Brad says lazily, "you nosy little shit."

"It's totally pertinent information, if your ass has revirginised then that's definitely need-to-know." There’s the rip of a condom packet, and Ray’s obviously rolling it onto his cock because Brad can hear a small sound of pleasure.

Brad doesn't have the energy to laugh properly, but he does breathe an amused huff. "It's unlikely. Hurry the fuck up."

"Homes, you've got yours, why are you the one trying to rush things?" Ray reappears, leaning over Brad. "What's your favourite position? Crab? Lotus? Sporting sparrow? Roaring bull?" His cheeks are dimpling again, and they draw Brad's eye. 

"Stow the Kama Sutra crap,” Brad says, biting his cheek to hold back a smile. “Like this is fine, you can just stand right there.”

"I'm just trying to be a considerate sex partner," Ray says, eyes wide and wounded. He's stroking his thumb gently down the skin between Brad's balls and ass, trailing little sparks of pleasure that make the muscles in Brad's stomach jump.

"A considerate sex partner would be fucking me already," Brad says, and Ray's, "Wow, you know 'considerate' doesn't mean the same as 'really fucking fast', right?" is barely more than white noise in his ears, because Ray was apparently warming the lube in his fingers while he was talking, and now he is firmly circling Brad's asshole, one two three times.

"Now, Marine, okay?" Ray says, and Brad breathes and pushes and Ray's sliding the tip of his finger inside.

Brad gasps, he can't help it, it _has_ been a while and he really _likes_ it, that first moment of slick intrusion. Ray is watching him through slitted eyes and the flush on his cheeks is starting to spread down to his neck and chest in patches. "I fucking wish I had a camera rolling right now, homes," he murmurs, his voice hoarse.

"I'd kill you," Brad says, aware that his voice is lacking its customary menace, as thready as it is right now, "and leave your body for the fishes."

"Sure, sure, you talk big, but you'd totally let me," Ray says. "You'd let me do anything right now." He sounds like a cat with cream, low and lingering over his words.

Brad refuses to comment, arching his neck with a satisfied sigh, but he can see Ray's smirk anyway.

"Tell me when you're ready, Brad," is the next thing that either of them says. Ray has two fingers inside him now, and Brad can't quite keep his eyes open - they keep sliding almost shut, pushed by a low hum of lust that's spreading through his body and making him squirm. 

"Yeah," he says, and has to stop and clear his throat. "Yeah, I'm good to go." He hooks a leg over one of Ray's shoulders.

"Sure?" Ray says, but it's more of a formality: he's already nudging his cock up against Brad's ass and he obviously trusts Brad's assessment.

Brad says it again, anyway, enjoying the wrecked sound of his own voice, "Yeah, sure," and Ray presses forwards with a long, low moan, blunt hot pressure pushing Brad open, shaping him around Ray's cock. Brad's not hard again, won't be, not from this, but holy hell that does something for him, Ray's hand spread over his thigh, holding his leg in place, and the long, hard line of his throat as he lifts his chin and bites his lip.

"Shit," Ray says weakly, "This is going to be embarrassingly fast. I guess that's okay."

"Yeah, Ray, that's okay. Get some." Brad arches his back, and Ray starts to move hard and fast, each roll of his hips driving the breath out of Brad in a short moan.

Ray's right, it's over really quickly, and Brad watches enraptured as Ray freezes, and tips his face up to the ceiling, and his fingers clench on Brad's leg hard enough to bruise. He starts trembling a second or two later, and his weight is leaning into Brad's leg in a way that might be painful if Brad wasn't a motherfucking Recon Marine.

Ray’s like that for less than a minute, and then he opens his eyes and says, "Fuck. _Fuck_ ," even as he's pulling gently out of Brad. Brad can't help the very slight sound of protest, caught in the back of his throat, because this part of being fucked, the part where he's left empty and a little unsatisfied, he could do without, but Ray turns his head sideways and brushes what looks very much like a kiss against Brad’s knee before lowering his leg to the bed and turning to get rid of the condom. Brad co-ordinates his muscles enough to drag himself backwards so that his ass isn't hanging off the bed, and then crosses his arms behind his head and just breathes.

Ray practically dive-bombs him when he comes back, throwing himself face first onto the bed with a long, luxurious groan and landing inches from Brad.

"Holy shit, booty calls with random strangers are the _best_ ," he says earnestly, voice a little blurry with sleepiness and muffled by pillows.

Brad feels a smile creep onto his face again. This is ridiculous. He doesn't smile this much _ever_. "I'm planning to disembowel and skin you in your sleep," he says conversationally.

"After tapping that ass," Ray informs the pillow his face is buried in, "I would die happy. Also, I gave three of my friends your number, and said if they didn't see me again they were to ensure that you never spent another restful night on this earth."

"Realistically, how worried should I be?"

Ray rolls his head to the side, and Brad can see half of a wide dark eye and the edge of a grin. "You against three Starbucks-dwelling college students?"

"Not very, then," Brad says and shifts position, putting his hands down by his sides. It's entirely coincidental that this makes his little finger brush against Ray's hand.

Ray turns his hand, and laces his fingers through Brad's as though it's that easy, as though that's a perfectly safe thing to do, and says, "No, homes, you misunderstand me. They would beat you to death with their Macbooks and strangle you with their scarves and you'd _never see them coming_."

Brad thinks about challenging that assertion, but he’s warm and relaxed and Ray is stroking a thumb over the thin skin at his pulsepoint, so instead he just says, “This is kind of assbackwards, but I think I might have enough food in the fridge for two.”

“Is this our first date?” Ray asks, a low and lazy hum, and Brad squeezes his fingers and says, “Maybe, and it turns out you’re really fucking easy.”

“ _I’m_ easy? I’m pretty sure you’re the one who just got deflowered. Or redeflowered, whatever, but I think you should have saved that precious gift for someone who’d put a ring on it.”

Brad turns his face to this side to hide his small, helpless grin, and squeezes Ray’s fingers again. Ray squeezes back.


End file.
